


Child's Play

by EclecticAce



Series: Short Affair - Section VII (LJ) [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticAce/pseuds/EclecticAce
Summary: Who knew child's play was so hazardous to adults?





	

            Because of the painkiller currently coursing through his body, Napoleon didn’t pick up on the unmistakable sound of the four-year old’s gait until she was almost at his door. He looked over just as the door clicked and a dark head peaked in around it. He grinned at her and nodded, “tell Uncle Illya it’s alright to come in now, Angela.”

            The girl disappeared and reappeared in a flash, this time stuck to Illya’s side like glue and holding his hand tightly with both of hers as they slid into the room. He tried to grin at the girl to alleviate some of the worry he saw in her green eyes, but only grimaced thanks to an ill-timed jolt that set off every pain receptor in his ankle and made the inside of his cheek bleed from the force at which he bit it to hold back the groan of agony.

            Illya quickly moved the child to the nearest chair and went about carefully readjusting his leg on the mountain of pillows it’d been placed on. By the time Illya stepped away Napoleon was sure his complexion rivalled that of the sheets he laid on top of, but he decided to ignore it and the sudden nausea, and just looked to Angela and winked, “I’ll be good as new in no time, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

            She hadn’t heard him. Her attention hadn’t left the mass of discoloured bandages wrapped around his ankle from mid-calf to his toes since she’d come in the room with Illya. Her mind, no doubt, replaying every second of the events of the day. Like her grandfather, Angela had an incredible eye for details, and like her grandfather, sometimes – like the current situation, it was an Achilles heel. However, unlike Mr. Waverly, who’d come up with techniques on how to deal with the anxiety such a talent created, decades ago, Angela’s young mind hadn’t yet. So, when she caught on to something worrying, she got stuck in a loop. She’d go over and over previous events to see if there was anyway she could have done something differently until she’d start shaking, crying or do a combination of both.

He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, after seeing this result – as bad as it was.

            The white knuckle grip the girl had on her knees worried Napoleon, and warned him that she wouldn’t last much longer. He had to try something. “Angela, it’ll heal. As long as you’re alright, that’s all that matters; all we care about.”

            Napoleon leaned over the railing of the bed as much as he dared and reached for her hand, “c’mon now, you’re ok. Talk to me, sweetheart, tell me what you’re thinking.”

            The only response he got was a tense shake of her head before her eyes shot to his for the first time since coming in the room. Angela then looked up to make sure Illya was beside her chair and then grabbed his hand in both hers again and buried her face in his palm. Almost immediately her shoulders began to shake, the sound, heart wrenching sobbing, soon followed and left both men on the verge themselves.

           The dark-haired man looked to his equally as concerned partner and nodded. Illya nodded back only once, bent slightly and lifted the girl into his arms. His hand went to the back of her head as she wrapped her legs and arms as tight around his wiry body as she could. With one last shared look, Illya turned on his heels and headed for the door again.

          Once left alone Napoleon collapsed back against the pillow and sighed. Angela, Mr. Waverly’s granddaughter, had been born the second year of their partnership, in the back of an old Chevy truck while escaping from a Thrush Satrap out in the Mojave Desert. Rose had initially wanted to call her Nalya, but both men had valiantly objected. Not enough apparently. She came in a week later for a visit, with Angela Nalya, and informed them that they were uncles now. For real.

          It’d been on one of the “for real” uncle outings that he hurt himself. At a playground near the Slaughterhouse District, where he used to play as a kid. Illya sat on a bench and read while Napoleon chased Angela around. On and off the dilapidated grey planks of wood, and up and down the stairs, slides, on the swings, monkey bars and the animals on the coils –  even the see-saw, without a care in the world.

         He hadn’t had that much fun in a long time!

         Right before home time he’d dutifully climbed to the top slide behind Angela, took one step and fell through two levels before he landed, breathless, on his back, about eleven agonising feet below. Before any pain registered he had to turn his face so it didn’t end up being pelted by every broken board that he’d brought down with him.

        Until Illya dropped down beside him, with Angela by his side, and both looked incredibly worried while avoiding looking at him from the waist down, Napoleon had no real idea he was hurt.

        “It’s bad, Napoleon,” he remembered Illya saying.

        And it was.

       A plank had split during his fall and impaled his ankle, thankfully missing anything major, but no less gruesome or troubling.

       The three of them went in the ambulance together, Illya muttering about the unsafe quality of playgrounds nowadays all the way, while holding tight to the silent pale little girl in his lap like a lifeline.

      Napoleon would survive, he was lucky, and it could have been worse. Much worse.

     Now he just had to trust in his friend’s skills at getting Angela calmed down. Illya had always been better at it than him.

     Then, a second later, “Uncle Nap’leon?” music to his ears, “mommy’s here.” Angela appeared again, with far more colour in her cheeks and a smile playing with the corners of her mouth. “You’re in trouble.”

 


End file.
